Chapter 19
Chapter 19
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter Title: Arrabbiata Holy Feast at the Seventh Outpost
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*Northern Border, Gray Mountains' Seventh Outpost.*
A biting gale whistled through the fortress wall's embrasures like a shrill flute.
A frozen hell where the perceived temperature swung above minus twenty degrees.
For the soldiers serving here, dinner should have been their sole reward after a day of grueling training and duty.
But reality was far different.
"Damn it, watery potato soup again."
Veteran Corporal Gunter clicked his tongue at the gray sludge floating with mystery oil blobs on his tray.
His buddies beside him had already given up on everything, methodically dipping rock-hard military bread into the broth.
Just days ago, they'd tasted paradise—a stark contrast that made this nightmare even worse.
For that brief window, the crimson miracle called Arrabbiata, supplied straight from the Imperial Palace, had graced their tables.
The electric sting slamming the tongue, followed by a scorching warmth flooding the whole body.
That flavor was the one flame melting their iced-over bodies and souls.
But—
"...Man, I miss that Arrabbiata."
The fake sauce fiasco in the capital had led to a temporary halt on all spicy condiments until safety standards were set—and this front line outpost bore the brunt first.
The table's return to normal was harsher hell than before.
Tongues awakened to heaven rejected hell's slop outright, casting deep ashen shadows of discontent and resignation over the soldiers' faces.
The mess hall filled only with the gloomy whine of cold wind sneaking through barrack cracks—right then.
The heavy mess door slammed open, and the quartermaster burst in, his face flushed with uncharacteristic excitement.
Clutched in his hand: a wax-sealed parchment scroll stamped with the Imperial seal.
"Attention! All hands, stop eating and listen up!"
Soldiers who'd normally drag their feet snapped to, spoons clattering down at the thrill in his voice.
The quartermaster cleared his throat a few times, then unfolded the scroll and read in a quavering voice.
A low murmur rippled through the soldiers.
Gunter snorted derisively.
'In the end, got nothing to do with us. Just makes the nobles' dinners safer.'
But the quartermaster's next words obliterated his scoff.
"And today! The Arrabbiata Holy Feast from the Argentis-Valerius Alliance Caravan—the very first to earn the Imperial Safe Mark—has been rush-delivered as top priority to this Seventh Outpost!"
The mess plunged into stunned silence.
Shattered by one soldier's involuntary gasp.
That ignited it—the hall exploded in ground-shaking roars.
"Waaaaaah!!"
"Arrabbiata! Arrabbiata's back!"
"Hell yeah! Knew it!!"
Cheers erupted, shredding all pretense of rank or decorum, flooding the drab hall.
Gunter clenched his fist without thinking. How long since his heart had thundered like this?
The dying ember named hope reignited in his chest furnace.
"Arrabbiata serving starts now!!"
The line reformed—more orderly, swifter than ever.
Eyes locked solely on the thick crimson steam billowing from the massive cauldron beyond the serving station.
Finally, Gunter's turn. He proffered his tray with near-reverence.
Thud—the ladle's heavy weight on his tray.
Before him unfurled the red hell-heaven he'd craved in dreams for weeks.
"Oh... ooooh... ooooooh..."
Deeper, richer crimson stew than before.
Generous chunks of reindeer meat, fat carrots, potatoes—all ruled by a spicy, aromatic assault on the nostrils.
Gunter sank into his seat, entranced. But the surroundings were eerily quiet.
The roaring cheers vanished; every man hunched over his tray like a pilgrim before the sacrament, silently lifting that first spoonful.
Gunter swallowed hard, scooped a heaping spoonful with care.
Slid tender meat and red broth into his mouth.
"...!"
His frozen world detonated.
"Huuuuh... hooooot."
Scorching heat. Electric, ferocious sting at the tongue-tip. But no agony—just bliss.
A ruthless awakening rousing every deadened nerve from the deep freeze, surging through his veins, screaming alive.
The initial zap faded, unleashing a torrent of profound tomato sweetness and umami from the tongue's depths.
Reindeer melted silkily; even stubborn carrots bloomed their innate sugars in this red sorcery.
"Haaa... huuu... hooooot..."
Thump-thump-thump. Heart pounding.
Spicy blaze scorched down his throat; a fireball bloomed in his gut, radiating outward.
Miracle: body heat stolen by the northern gale restored in one spoonful.
The man went speechless. Spoon only moved.
Second, third bites—sweat beaded his brow, streamed down his back. He couldn't stop.
Spicy. Painful.
Yet his brain mocked the hurt with exploding euphoria.
This wasn't mere flavor. Primal force incinerating the north's iron winter, birthing new life from ashes.
Every soldier mirrored him.
Some frantically mopped sweat; others panted haa-haa, mouths agape to cool scorched tongues.
None set down their spoons.
His buddy snatched hardtack with trembling fingers.
Usually a jawbreaker abandoned half-chewed.
He dunked it deep in red stew. Dark loaf greedily slurped crimson broth.
Mouthful hit—eyes glazed vacant.
"No way... the bread... it's sweet."
His murmur was the flare.
Soldiers everywhere soaked bread in stew.
Gruff whole-wheat chew gone; sauce-laden bites dissolved like fine cake.
Better—nutty grain sugars detonated in spicy synergy.
"Hey, one more bread over here!"
All eyes swiveled to serving. The cook looked pained.
"Bread's gone! Sorry—not sorry!"
Incredulous groans everywhere.
Bread usually half-left for livestock fodder—now depleted.
Soldiers scraped final broth drops with crumbs.
"No way that surplus bread's gone?"
"Ugh, special chow day and no extra loaves? Lazy kitchen scum."
"Dude, cooks'll blacklist you later."
Trays licked clean, soldiers scanned like they'd rehearsed—no more grub?
"Oi, cook! Stew! Any stew left?"
A guy who'd never finished one bowl surged up, bellowing at serving.
Echoes erupted.
"Yeah! Seconds for me!"
"Damn it, bread or no, more broth!"
Quartermaster at the line front gaped at the impossible scene.
Stew usually trash-bound—now pots scraped bare.
Cooks ladled cauldron bottoms raw, squeezing last drops onto trays.
Budget-obsessed quartermaster glanced rearward.
Slop bins always heaped like mountains—empty today.
Bland boiled turnips ignored by all, fishy dried flakes shunned—all vanished into bellies via red magic.
Even milk tubs, spice-soothed and drained by rookies, bottoms showing—veterans never touched 'em.
Quartermaster couldn't hide his grin.
This was damn near miraculous.
Gazing from emptying pots to buzzing soldiers, he silently saluted the Valerius chef behind it all.
"Thanks for the feast!!"
Heading back to barracks, their steps weren't the usual leaden trudges of despair.
Lively bounces filled the parade ground.
Every chat zeroed on one thing: the Arrabbiata Holy Feast that just ravaged tongues and guts.
Culminating in a jaunty little ditty.
"~Fresh Tomato Sauce is the best~
'Cause it's delicious, Tomato Sauce is the best~
One scoop of Tomato Sauce and we're lions!"
The shift wasn't lost on the grunts alone.
In the command tent of Seventh Outpost, Company Captain Edgar stared out the window at the vibrant soldiers, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Incredible."
His adjutant, buzzing with hype, reported.
"Captain, med bay says frostbite and gut issues down to half or less. All that sweating got their blood pumping smooth."
"Not just the meds."
Edgar stroked his chin, voice keen.
"Mental boost is bigger. Look at their eyes. No more dead livestock stares. Those are live soldiers' eyes. One dinner flipped their souls harder than any drill or speech."
He returned to desk, unrolled blank parchment. Dipped pen heavy in ink, scrawled without pause.
He paused, eyed the window. A few soldiers bare-chested, rolling in snow for bare-knuckle PT.
Unseen in years. Stew heat chased off the cold.
After deliberation, final line chosen—a faint smile tugged Captain Edgar's lips.
"This ain't just sauce. It's another fire to conquer the northern winter."
Pen up. This report would ride the fastest courier to the Empire's heart tonight.
That night, on wall sentry duty, Corporal Gunter floated in unfamiliar warmth.
Gale still clawed his cheeks, but no bone-deep chill.
Arrabbiata's glow, deep in his core, armored him like plate.
He scanned the dark ridges of the Gray Mountains.
Beyond, as ever, unknown foes lurked to shatter the Empire's peace.
Fearful. Tedious grind.
But tonight, something else dwelled in his heart.
'Tomorrow's dinner... that stew again?'
Tiny spark of anticipation. A lone ember in pitch void.
But that flicker fueled endurance for the endless brutal winter.
Gunter muttered unaware.
"Damn... that was good."
White breath plumed from his lips.
Beyond it, his eyes held a faint, unmistakable gleam—unlike before.
Not resignation.
A small hope for tomorrow.